


Nightmares and Awakenings

by EdnaV



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hope, Hurt/Comfort, I'd like to say that it's a subtle metaphor, M/M, PTSD, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), The Trials, but it's not subtle at all
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-24
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-16 17:34:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28960299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EdnaV/pseuds/EdnaV
Summary: They were sleeping together. Of all the things that the Apocalypse had changed by failing to happen, that was the one they both loved the most: a glorious sign that they could be safe and together.But the nightmares were terrifying.After they survived the Apocalypse and their trials, Aziraphale and Crowley still have to survive something. They'll do it together.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 22
Kudos: 68





	Nightmares and Awakenings

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MovesLikeBucky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MovesLikeBucky/gifts).



> For Bucky, extraordinary writer and enabler of writers, a 5 + 5 + 1 of soft hurt and (hopefully) comfort.

They were sleeping together. Of all the things that the Apocalypse had changed by failing to happen, that was the one they both loved the most: a glorious sign that they could be safe and together.

Aziraphale had taken to sleep like a duck to pestering tourists; that is, he didn’t need to do it, but he thoroughly — and creatively — enjoyed it. Crowley loved to watch his student’s fast progress, and he enjoyed even more joining him in the abandon of the senses. They both relished the sensation of the drowse overtaking them as one, just as they were finally free to be one and together in everything.

_ It would be perfect, _ thought Crowley,  _ if it weren’t for the dreams. _

To be fair, most of the dreams were perfectly fine. Some were even welcome, like the one that had finally solved his millennia-old problem of translating a terrible pun from Akkadian to Aeolic dialect, or the one that had given to Aziraphale a recipe for Schwarzwälder Kirschtorte that had proved to be scrumptious, even if the final result could’ve sated a small army.

But the nightmares were terrifying.

It was worse for Crowley. In his millennia of sleeping he’d never had a single dream, so the nightmares had both scared and startled him. Aziraphale, on the other hand, had expected them; which somehow didn’t surprise Crowley, who knew his angel’s tendency to constantly worry about the worst-case scenario.

Still, the nightmares were there. Always the same, always two: one for Aziraphale, one for Crowley.

Aziraphale’s nightmare was cold and filled with light.

Crowley’s nightmare was dark, and it felt oppressive like a sauna with too much steam.

Both of them used to check their wrist as they woke up.

Aziraphale’s nightmare always ended in a scorching hot fire.

Crowley’s nightmare always ended in a bathtub of water so freezing that it burned every molecule of his being.

They both knew what they’d dreamed of, even if it’d taken them a while to confess: three nights suddenly interrupted by two synchronised screams.

The first time, they’d jumped out of their bed, each of them on their side -- left for Crowley, right for Aziraphale -- and stared at each other as if they carried the afterimage of their death.

The second time, they’d just recoiled to their respective edges of the bed.

They’d done the same on the third time, but Crowley had also had the wits to suggest a cup of tea, stat. It was over that cup that they’d finally compared notes about this new turn of events.

The fourth time, they’d still moved away from each other, but they’d held each other’s hands.

The fifth time, they’d found themselves in each other’s arms.

“Do you think it’s going to happen again?” asked Crowley.

“Six times? It makes sense. Traditionally...”

“Don’t start.”

“I’m sorry, dear.”

Crowley was about to propose to give up sleep altogether. But Aziraphale had asked his tailor for perfectly cut woolen pyjamas -- tartan, of course -- and Crowley couldn’t take his serpentine eyes off him, and so he had to follow him upstairs, and he’d somehow found himself tucked in bed.

_ (In our own bed, _ he thought as he was getting under the covers.  _ Our own.  _ He realised that nobody would’ve taken his sleep from him, because it wasn’t  _ his  _ sleep anymore: it was  _ theirs.) _

The sixth night passed by without any incident.

The seventh night brought Aziraphale the revelation that his favourite bookseller had found a first edition of the _Supernatural Pamphlets_ of Andrew Jackson Davis in pristine condition. Since the fellow bookseller was in the habit of actually _selling_ his books, he mumbled a sleepy _sorry my dear, don’t worry, they won’t see me materialising out of thin air, and anyway Oliver already suspects that I’m not human and he doesn’t mind, he’s such a dear young man,_ then he clicked his fingers and vanished. He came back with both the book and a tray of confectionery, and the two of them spent the day in a better mood than they had in a long time.

The good mood kept them awake through the eight night, during which Aziraphale’s pyjamas proved both very useful and absolutely superfluous.

On the ninth night, Crowley dreamed about a good spot for a picnic in Greenwich. They went to check, and it was indeed wonderful: the sun was shining, the view was stunning, and the food in the hamper was better than a miracle.

As they were about to fall asleep on the tenth night, Crowley simply asked, “Why?”

Aziraphale sighed. “Our bodies are readjusting after... everything.”

“We didn’t have a choice.”

“We didn’t.”

“It’s not fair.”

“It’s not.”

“I hate it, angel.”

“So do I, my dear.”

“Then...”

“Then we’ll survive this one together, as one. Again.”

They didn’t dream of anything that night, but when they woke up all their muscles were sore, as if they’d run a marathon uphill. 

On the sixth night, Aziraphale went through the halls of Heaven. He listened to Gabriel’s reprimands and insults, and he stared at a demon who wanted to punch him.

Crowley tried not to shiver in front of his former bosses, and made silly jokes about barbershop quartets.

Aziraphale stepped into Hellfire.

Crowley took off his jacket and dipped his toe into the bathtub of Holy Water.

Aziraphale’s fire was hot, but more bearable than that time his favourite pot holder had ripped just as he was taking a tray of biscuits out of the oven.

Crowley’s cold blood could’ve done without all that icy water, but it wasn’t much worse than wearing ripped skinny jeans in winter.[1]

They woke up together, both of them craving a large cup of coffee, but smiling.

The cup of coffee had become a luxurious brunch, which in turn had stretched into a lazy Sunday afternoon. They fell asleep in each other’s arms.

The nightmares came back a few times, but the fire was less hot, the water was less icy, and each time their bodies were a bit closer. 

Eventually, even the last traces of their pain became just a memory, a counterpoint that made the happiness of their present shine a bit brighter.

And their present turned out to be bright and happy indeed, filled with delightful brunches, scrumptious picnics and beautiful views, rare books and perfect pastries, soft tartan pyjamas (and a few black silken ones), and so much more. There was a whole world to overshadow the past, and at the end of each day, or whenever they felt like it, there was the two of them, in  _ their _ bed, sleeping together.

* * *

#### Footnotes

1. He was very proud of having launched the fashion. Less proud of having fallen victim to it.↩

**Author's Note:**

> The fellow bookseller is probably Sotheran’s, whose Twitter account is enough to justify the existence of that social network. [Here’s the story of Mr Andrew Jackson Davis and his pamphlets.](https://twitter.com/Sotherans/status/1351223492977565703)
> 
> This fic wouldn’t exist without [Z A Dusk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/snakeandmoon/), who betaed it into shape... All mistakes are just mine, of course.
> 
> Don’t be shy, make me smile, leave a comment!


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